Oblivion Nights
by pwendomyr
Summary: The Champion of Cyrodiil ends up at the Sunken Flagon. Angst and wry humor ensues.
1. Chapter 1

Oblivion Nights  
A NWN2 / Elder Scrolls crossover  
by posted 1/28/2007

"Have you stumbled up here to save my soul, clumsy godsman?" Or perhaps to chide me? Did my Dunmer manners offend you as well?

Casavir hesitated. _Dunmer?_ The stranger's Amulet of Tongues translated the alien word as "_cursed dark elf_," but he had seen nothing in this tall woman's earlier... indiscretion... that brought to mind drow arrogance. Quite the opposite in fact, and he should reassure her. Still, she did seem to be part elven, and her red-rimed eyes might mean more than that she was still recovering from the aftereffects of a concussion combined with a near-fatal dose of magebane, in which case the reassurance might be taken as an insult.

"I would not pre…"

He was not at his best, and knew it. The sun would be rising in an hour or so and this night's quest for sleep had come to little. Earlier, his rest had been disrupted by noise from the rowdy crowd of Axil's thieves that had taken to reveling away their evenings at Duncan's inn. The remainder of the night had been sabotaged by the unwelcome upwelling of his... concerns... at having the Harborman away on Ironfist's fool mission with only the most chaotic and untrustworthy of their band as backup.

"Forgive me, lady, I did not mean to..."

Despairing of rest, the Paladin had decided on fresh air as his next best option, drawing on boots, trousers, and tunic and making his way up narrow steps to the Flagon's small widow's walk. Only to nearly run down the dark-shrouded figure already occupying the cramped planking between the inn's wall and the balcony's derelict railing, invisible to human eyes in the moonless darkness.

The startled and off-balance stranger had reacted with impressive speed, grabbing his shoulder and steadying both of them while he was still teetering and flatfooted.

"Or perhaps you would like something delivered, or fetched, or escorted?" _By Tyr's Oath, she was nearly as tall as he was._ Not elf then, but not human – or at least not _mostly_ human. Aasimir? Teifling? Sand had said he smelled death on her, and his own Paladin's senses screamed _outworlder_.

But not evil. Despite Duncan's having come upon her in the process of offering a "thoughtful gift" to the Greycloak sergeant sent to investigate the presence of five foreigners -- "poor lost pilgrims" -- who had appeared seemingly from nowhere on the docks, Casavir's divine insight detected less of evil in her than it found in several of his own companions.

"I won't be in very good condition for such things for just a bit, with my magic all but burned out of me." Her first spike of adrenaline-charged anger dissipated, the biting tone of the stranger's opening salvo was trailing off into something like resigned self-mockery. "Perhaps there's a barrow that needs ransacking? I was good at _that_ when I barely knew a cantrip."

Casavir's eyes had begun to adjust to the faint glow of distant streetlamps and starlight, and with this last turn of phrase he could just see her silhouetted shoulders slump. Then straighten, and square, as if by an act of Will. His breathing fell into synch with hers as it slowed, deepened, and became regular, pressing down despair. _She's had training for control. (Sand had implied as much.) Not a sorcerer._

He recovered her cool hand from its death grip on his shoulder, taking it between his stronger ones while he called on his Aura of Courage. Thanking Tyr that neither Bishop nor Neeksha was present to set another barb concerning Paladin's charm and maidens in distress, he channeled the blessing into an enfolding cocoon of solace.

"What are you _doing?" _The stress in her voice pulled him from the hypnotic effect of the shared moment. "When you first came up here it felt like sunlight on my skin, and now it feels like I'm being comforted… or blessed."

The woman's breath caught. "Y_ou _were the one they called when I..." She stiffened and attempted to back away, but he gripped her hand more tightly, aware as he was that and only an unsound balcony railing stood between the two of them and a night-obscured 20-foot drop onto cobblestones. _What aasimir would fail to recognize a Paladin's auras?_

"Please, Lady Sera. You were ill, blinded and headblind as well, and awoke in a strange place where you could not understand the speech of those about you. Your husband… Martin, would not have faulted you for your fears were he here. Nor did I."

The Paladin had been out on an errand when her party of five exhausted and injured foreigners first straggled through the door of the Sunken Flagon. According to Duncan, two of the woman's armed and armored companions had been all but carrying a third, and she had been so heavily muffled that bets had been laid as to whether her cloaked, shawled and generally cloth-camouflaged form was male or female.

Her spiritless figure had failed to react to even the rudest of jibes, however. Slouched and silent, she had waited in ashen stillness while Baurus, the dark skinned one of her cohort, attempted to negotiate for sustenance and beds. Frustrated by the lack of a common language, the black man had finally given up on being understood and tossed down a handful of gold while holding up three fingers, then taken the room keys Duncan tossed down in return.

Then, with enough respectful deference that it dissuaded Duncan from the thought that he was witnessing a kidnapping, Baurus had simply picked her up and, following Duncan's lead, carried her to her room. And that was the last that anyone had seen of her, until three days later when her horripilated early morning screaming for _Martin_ had awakened the Flagon, alerted the nearby guard post, and even brought Sand running from his shop.

Smoothly, carefully, Casavir continued his intervention. "If you feel you must take leave of me now, please let me slide past you so that you might reach the stairs in safety." The feminine hand between his own was firm, hardened from more than holding a pen or a wizard's staff. _Perhaps she's a bard. Perhaps they were performer's calluses._

"Safety? Of course… it's night and _you_ can't _see_. No wonder you're…" her preoccupied voice trailed away and he heard a rustling sound followed by a snap. "Wait, this will do, though things will look a bit green." A pause, and she continued, "Give me back my hand, _serjo_," – **hero**, the Amulet of Tongues whispered – "I would not have you at a disadvantage." At that, he could hear a smile in her voice, even if he could not see it.

As he reluctantly released her fingers, he felt her slip something - a ring - upon the first finger of his own right hand. And, yes, the sudden light that sprung up about them was greenish, but it was enough. The hood of her enveloping cloak was thrown back, her features revealed.

In the unflatteringly verdurous light he could tell nothing about her hair beyond that it was pulled back and it was dark. Her face, however, was a handsome compilation of human and non-human features, broad browed and dignified, with high cheekbones, a cupid's bow mouth and upswept elven ears. Strikingly exotic… were it not for the _tattoos_ and her still horrifically bloodshot eyes. He decided he would have to see her in daylight before he could decide if she were beautiful despite the disfigurations but _at least there were no horns._

His reverie was interrupted. "Serjo… _Sir_ Casavir?" It was a question, and a demand for his full attention. He nodded as she adroitly reversed their previous station, taking his hands between her own smaller ones.

"Listen, for thus comes wisdom." The phrase had a ritualistic feel about it, as if she were quoting from some well-thumbed text.

"_Sera_" – **worthy**, whispered the Amulet – "is a Dunmer honorific, not my name. You are welcome to address me thus, but my _name_ is Aylenbrae Etienne. Though I was long known among those of House _Telvanni_ – **magicians (warlocks)** - as Spellwright Pwendomyr, and still answer to Pwen if it is your pleasure to address me so.

"Further, Martin was not my husband, he was my _liege_. I was _his _Champion, his bodyguard." Shame crept into her voice. "He… was lost to us _on my watch_, and it plagues me worse than my memories of Oblivion." – **demon planes** - , whispered the Amulet.

"But, you…"

"Adored him," she confirmed. "I never told him, I told myself that there was never _time_. Besides, he was a Priest of Akatosh and heir to Kings, and I was a _daedra_ – **chaos demon**, whispered the Amulet – worshipping mixed-blood Telvanni ex-convict more than twice his age.

_Akatosh? Daedra? **Convict?** _"But who –" _She was a _warlock. No, she _couldn't _be a warlock -- he no more sensed the stink of abysmal chaos on her than he did the reek of evil.

"No. No more questions.

"I am sorry, but I have one more point to make, and then I must ask you to leave me alone with the stars. The sun is near to rising and there are… past due divinations that I believe I may be recovered enough to complete, that are only possible at dawn or twilight.

"Please," she added with a wry smile, softening the harshness of the emphatic negative that had come before.

"Very well, …sera." He would _not_ call her by a name or title used by those who made pacts with demons.

"Thank you, kind sir." That too had a ritualistic ring.

"So. Finally, I tell you that _I_ am what happened to my companions. "The poison the assassins used is called magetear. It wracks those born under the star of the Mage with violent hallucinations, but leaves them with their magica and their volition intact.

"When the _fetchers_" – Casavir blushed at what the Amulet translated this time – "who did this thing saw that their trap had been sprung, they opened the portal that dropped the seven of us… here. A far land under threat, where those not affected by the magetear could neither speak nor understand the language. I am reasonably certain that this is not even our _world_."

"Seven? Duncan said he saw only yourself and your four..." Casavir paused. He had been about to say bodyguards, but if she herself was a guard, not the coddled lord's wife -- _mistress_ -- their first encounter had conditioned him to expect, what _was_ her relationship with her cohorts? They deferred to her. _Was she their leader?_

She looked down and away from him. "My apprentice, Marcus, killed himself in the first thrashings of the drug, but _I_ am battle trained. I struck out, killing Gothren before Caius managed to drag his stash of _skooma_ – **addictive, mind-destroying drug**, murmured the Amulet - from his pack and Evaine and Aryar managed to bash my brains in from behind and hold me while he poured it down my throat. And _I_ am the one who broke both of Caius's legs for him in the process.

"So. You see, it was my companions who mageburned and blinded me, knowing full well that their only other options were to kill me or abandon me trapped in _dangerous_ madness. And they were _right_ in doing so," she added quietly. "Perhaps it would have been even better if they had killed me. Gothren and Marcus are in their graves for no other reason than that they traveled with me."

"Do not say such a thing. Tyr himself would not hold you responsible for…" Her face turned back to his, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

"Then you, with your oh so overweening _indor_ – **chivalry (mad foolishness)**, translated the Amulet of Tongues – in stepping in to comfort the poor blinded 'maiden', and Sand with his well placed silence spell and the amulets that translate, and Duncan with his discrete hospitality for those so far from home, saved my dear friends from having to live with the sort of failure I…" Her voice broke.

And continued, "…am forever in your debt."

"But, it was my…"

"Duty," she completed for him, lifting the backs of his hands to touch her forehead, then pressing soft lips to the center of each palm before releasing it. "To your god. I know.

"The whys of noble and compassionate acts rarely matter overmuch, I have found. Though Stendorr himself, I think, would find no fault in your heart."

"Lady, why did your companions hide you from us?" If they had taken you to the Temple of Tyr, or even of the Morninglord, you need not have endured…" _Stendorr? Who or what was Stendorr?_ Tyr's Oath, this whole conversation had taken on the shape of ritual – of some sort of _test._

"Morninglord. Yes, it _is_ morning. Please do not let me detain you," her words were sweet but her dismissal allowed room for no dissent. Turning her gaze to the east, where the first hints of dawn were making themselves known, she added more gently, "Get some sleep, godsman."


	2. Chapter 2

Sand and Glass

Oblivion Nights, Chapter 2

"Yes. You _are_ correct," Sand's acerbic voice purred with the pleasure of discovery and exposition. "This is _not_ a ring of light. It is a ring that produces the_ illusion_ of what one would see if there _were _light… of a rather vertiginous shade of green.

"Hmmmm. I can see how such an enchantment _could _be useful allowing the _night-blind_," at this he sniffed and glanced up at his human audience, "to travel in darkness without giving away their position _or_ ruining the night-_vision_ of better sighted companions."

After pausing for a moment to see if the Paladin would rise to the bait, Sand shrugged internally and turned the ring to better catch the light. "The band itself seems to be a totally unremarkable silver alloy. The stone chips, I would say, are some sort of polished glass.

"The workmanship is adequate, but no better than it needs to be to take the enchantment. And yes, before you ask _again_, the whole thing _is _other-planar. Many things are, you know.

With that said, Sand held out the ring while half-turning to resume work at his alchemist's bench. "In the future if you are going to _continue_ to concern yourself with the provenance of lesser metals and pretty rocks, might I suggest that you consult with the gnome or the dwarf? The 'sons of stone' are reputed to be quite good with such things."

"What about the runes?" Casavir ignored the proffered ring, doggedly oblivious to the moon elf's - rather pointed, Sand thought to himself – hints that show-and-tell was over. _So much for Paladin's courtesy, at least when comely young ladies weren't present._

The elven wizard sighed, measuring out his words before answering. "They are _not_ runes… though they do seem to be characters of some sort rather than mere abstract design. _However_, they are not Abysmal, or Celestial, or based on any other script with which I am even _remotely_ familiar. If you asked me to hazard a guess, I would say that they are most likely based on the 'secret cipher' of some lost cult or another.

"That being the case, w_here_ did you say you acquired this _entirely_ banal object of your attentions, hmmmm?" Sand faced back toward the Paladin and held the ring up between thumb and forefinger. Turnabout was fair play, and perhaps a question pointed in Casavir's direction would inspire the tight-lipped devotee of Tyr to find other elves to badger.

"I… From the cloaked woman, the one they've been calling Lady Sera. Over at the Sunken Flagon."

_Well, well, was the Paladin _blushing?_ Perhaps Casavir might have something interesting to impart, after all. _Enjoying the taller man's discomfiture, Sand said nothing, merely sniffing suggestively and raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Chivalric need to protect the stranger's reputation and reluctance to say more warred in the Paladin's voice as he _finally_ retrieved the proffered ring from Sand's outstretched fingers, then continued with stiff embarrassment. "She lent it to me yesterday morning, before dawn, after I… nearly ran her down on the widow's walk.

"I intended to return it to her that afternoon, but when I went to find her, she and her companions were gone. This was… disconcerting… considering things she told me about her origins. And her appearance. I… her hood was back, and I was able to study her face and hands by the light given off by that ring…"

"The _illusion _of light," Sand corrected automatically.

Casavir nodded slowly, conceding the point, then continued, "In the _illusion of light_, she appeared as if she might be of moon elf descent. Perhaps with some celestial heritage, to account for her greater stature. The tattoos on her face and hands, a rose, moon and star… I believe each of these is held in esteem among your people?"

"Casavir, I hardly see where..."

"It's what I _wanted _to believe, what seemed to fit -- that what I was seeing were sigils of Devotion rather than warlock's marks. There was something... serene but focused in her manner that I have learned to associate with the divine.

"But when we spoke, what she _told me_ was that she was she was a combat hardened _mage_... and other things. A former royal bodyguard, which means at least some physical conditioning and weapons training. She... seemed to think it important that I… we believe she is dangerous. That she had killed one member of her party and injured another when they tried to subdue her while she was delirious.

"She _said_ that our better course might have been to let her die. But...that wasn't the worst of it." Of its own accord, the Paladin's hand moved to the hilt of his warhammer. "She implied that she was cursed. _A former demon worshipper who has traveled the Lower Planes._ We both saw her red eyes. _You_ told me she smelled of death. If _half_ of what she said was true, then she _is_ a warlock, some sort of elf-demon hybrid, with active ties to the infernal."

"Daemonfey," Sand interjected dryly. "Also known as fey'ri. That _would_ explain red eyes. However, the fey'ri are descended from_ sun_ elves and tend toward scaly skin and bat-wings, besides. No. From what you _describe_, and from what _I_ saw after her screaming disrupted _my_ sleep three nights ago, she's more likely an elf-_devil_ mix.

"_Why_ are you staring at me, Casavir? You've indicated that she was at least _capable _of holding a trusted position. In addition, over the five days they were here, she and her compatriots played out their role of weary 'pilgrims' to the letter; avoiding inciting gossip, side-stepping attempts to pick bar fights, and resisting the urge to backhand Bishop and Grobnar equally. _Not_ what one might expect from the chaos-born, not at all."

"But I… But I sensed _none_ of this," the Paladin interrupted, anguish in every syllable. "Two nights ago, on the widow's walk, I _trusted_ her. Later, my first thought was that I had been very tired and was misremembering what she said, or that the amulet's translation was somehow faulty. Or that she was mad. I did not sense that she was lying." His voice fell to a whisper. "Or evil. If she is a warlock and not chaotic, then she _must_ be evil."

"Not all those with infernal…"

"No! No matter what her heritage, she spoke in praise of kindness and noble acts. She thanked the three of us – you and Duncan and myself - for sparing her fellows the _dishonor _of being unable to prevent her death. Furthermore, her companions thought enough of her to _continue_ to guard and protect her, even after she had been driven to attack them and was helpless."

Casavir's shoulders squared as he visibly reclaimed his composure. "I _cannot_ picture someone who gives and inspires such genuine devotion as a _willing _ally of our enemies. But the following day, she and her party were _gone, _without warning_. And that night the Harborman returned and the Flagon was attacked._

"What if she was an _unwilling_ spy, and my… _our_ intervention broke her partially free from control long enough to try to warn me? Why else would she confess such things to a servant of Tyr, then disappear?

"She told me that she needed to be alone to finish a divination that could only take place at dusk or dawn – the time of shadows. Then she cut off our conversation… rather decisively. Perhaps that was when our enemy reasserted control over her. And I failed to notice _because I needed sleep."_

"Well." The moon elf tested the taller man's proposals, and found them creditable, if not entirely convincing. "_If _she _were _devil-kin under compulsion… not necessarily by the King of Shadows himself, perhaps a pawn of the Githyanki or Luskin or even Thay… that would_ certainly_ explain why her companions didn't take her to any of the available temples to be healed.

"It _does_ make a certain sense, however... never mind. Pass the ring back, Casavir, and I'll do what I can to scry it for you and decipher those 'runes.'

"Thank you. Now, before we continue, you implied earlier that Sera was not the young lady's name – yes, I _did _notice, it's just that at that point of our so enlightening conversation you had given me no reason to _care_."

The elf sniffed, and continued before the Paladin could protest, "So, in the midst of your running the poor girl down, and her subsequent early morning soul-bareing, did mistress not-Sera happen to mention what her name _is_? Knowing that would help me with this sort of divination. Tremendously."

"Aylenbrae Eteinne," Casavir's deep voice stumbled as he attempted to reproduce the stranger's exotic accent. "Or Spellwright Pwendomyr, though I think Spellwright is a title."

Sand could not resist the urge to display his erudition. "Neither of those sound Luskin, though Spellwright is certainly a title one might covet in a mageocracy such at Thay," he mused aloud. "Pwendomyr, though, _that's_ an odd one. Were you aware that Domyr can be translated as Doomed Traveler or Fated Witch in the drow tongue? _Drow_ heritage fits the girl well enough, though she's more than two heads taller than the tallest drow I've ever heard of, so it would have to be _quite_ far back.

"But, _enough_ idle speculation. Give me a moment to see if I have a scroll handy that will allow me to translate those 'runes,' and perhaps we can actually _know_ something.

"_Ah_, _there_ it is," Sand continued, pulling the rolled document from a pile beneath the counter. "Now, Casavir, _please_ move away from that shelf of _extremely_ fragile potion bottles, and we'll divine whatever there is to find out. You _are_ aware that if you had told me what it was you really wanted in the first place, we would have been done by now?

"Hmmmm?" 


	3. Chapter 3

Interlude, With Foreshadowing

Oblivion Nights, Chapter 3

"Casavir? Ah, there you are. That pestilent child Wolfe just burst into my shop with a message from Duncan."

"A message, Sand?" Turning from his appraisal of Neverwinter's waterfront at sunset, the Paladin turned an expectant eye on the moon elf hurrying toward him across the docks. "Is the Harborman back?"

"Hardly," sniffed the wizard, dashing hope. "It seems, however, that my 'girlfriend' is, and I am to scurry back to the Flagon or I'll 'miss the show'."

"Sand, I scarcely see…"

"I was not expecting any such announcement, either. However, when I questioned the ragamuffin for details, I was informed that 'the really tall lady' who's 'bluey' like me, 'but with red eyes' was back with 'new friends.' And that she had asked for the 'scryer'. Since you were the one who insisted…"

"You need say no more, Sand. I am the one who asked you to remotely observe the strangers, for reasons that seemed valid at the time. If she… they feel they have been 'spied' on and have taken offense, I am more than willing to shoulder the blame."

"How very noble of you," Sand drawled, punctuating the comment by slapping at the growing cloud of gnats and mosquitoes called up by stagnant water and twilight. "You know, you really _don't _have to help patrol the docks while we wait for the Harborman. Now that we've turned back the Sea Ghost, I really _cannot_ see Luskin attacking from this direction…"

---------------------------------

Casavir's composed his features to conceal most, but not all, of the discomfort he felt as he followed Sand across the rune-protected threshold of the Sunken Flagon. While a part of him fully accepted that his suspicions of conveniently appearing strangers had been prudent and his actions regarding them had been more than justified by the direness of the current threat to Neverwinter, his idealism still whinged at having turned a gift into a tool to spy upon the giver.

"Well, now. I wondered why it was taking you so long, Sand. Needed a Paladin to back you up, eh?" Duncan Farlong's West Harbor accent boomed across the near-empty taproom when he noticed the pair making their way toward him. At this time of day, the Sunken Flagon was neither crowded nor noisy, but years of shouting over bards at work and tavern rowdies had had a permanent effect on the innkeeper's modulation. "Her friends said they had to head out and meet up with someone. But Sera's waiting over on the other side of the fireplace, swapping tales with Grobner."

"Her name isn't…" Casavir began to protest, nodding a greeting as he did so.

"He tried to get her to sing for him." Duncan ignored the attempted correction. "The woman couldn't carry a tune in a bucket, but at least she has the sense to know it. Unlike some," he added, wincing and rubbing his right ear. "She finally got Grobner to quiet down by distracting him with some sort of weird story about a whale and a dirt bird."

"A '_dirt-bird_,' Duncan?" Sand inquired, his tones awash with the special tone of sham incredulity he reserved for unsuffered fools and the owner of the Sunken Flagon.

"_I_ didn't say it, Sand, _she_ did," the half-elf snorted in response. "If you have questions, the lady's right over…" Duncan stood a little straighter and shot a meaningful look toward the scruffy ranger nursing an ale in front of the Flagon's massive hearth, then flicked the sopcloth he'd been using to clean tables in the general direction of the far side of the room. "…there."

"Ah, then. Another mystery of the planes, I suppose. _Shall_ we, Casavir?"

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http://til. Seven Fights of The Aldudagga  
Fight Three, "The Snow Whale and the Dirtbird"


	4. Epilog

Echoes in Sorrow and Madness:  
Turnabout, Game, and Match  
A NWN2 / Elder Scrolls crossover

Epilog

"Wake up. You were dreaming.

"No, brave godsman, do not try to move. You are injured and will do yourself greater harm. Here, lie still and I will take your hand."

"Wha… Godsman? Lady Sera? I can't see. I feel… where?"

"In a place of safety, in the fringelands between Nirn and the realm of the Madgod Sheogorath. I had you brought here so that we might speak, where what you choose and what we say need not pass to the ears of those who wait to write your fate. For by Sheogorath's whim, what happens in this place-between remains unminded by those beyond its borders."

"Nirn. Your home… in Limbo."

"Yes, most precious Casavir, Limbo is what you have told me you call Mundus.

"I have said to you that if it were within my power, I would offer you a new beginning once the threat of the Shadow King was truly ended. And now, that time is upon us and we must be quick, for you have made the fulfillment of my promise _much_ more difficult than I had anticipated."

"The Shardbearer… the others? She…they live?"

"Shhhhh. Don't try to sit up. Sand and Zhjaeve stand behind me, waiting for me to 'get on with it' so that they may speak with you. The ones you last saw still living survived to walk away. Or escaped by magics to places where scrying could not follow."

"Sand… Here? All safe?"

"Yes, all safe, at least as far as we could follow. Sand and Zhjaeve are here and wait to speak to you. But first, I must ask that you focus fully on what I say. Your pain has been hidden from you, but your legs are crushed. If you had not been wearing the trinket that I left you as a keepsake, Sand and Zhjaeve could not have brought you to me as your life bled out beneath the broken stones of Merdelain.

"And I say to you that I have done this thing in this way because Zhjaeve has sworn to me that you will choose honorable death over returning to a life turned bitter. And if this is true, then we will tarry for a while, and what we speak of will be passed over by those who wait to judge you -- a dying man's last incoherence. But _I_ will know that you did not pass this life abandoned and alone. Even if you refuse me, I will _still_ hold your hand until you are passed beyond feeling. And I swear to you that your bones will find their way to the resting place that you have chosen. Though I think the Temple of Seasons will be colder than a Dunmer's Waiting Door."

"Waiting Door? Your Ahemmusa?"

"Yes, you have stood with me so that my family might be returned to me. Can I not honor one who has no family tomb in at least this small manner? But now, Katalmach, you weep slow tears your hands grow cold, and you have not yet heard what opens before you as the door of your life on Faerun closes.

"Sand has told me how I must word this thing, the _lawful_way to say it.

"Hear me, Sir Casavir of Neverwinter, Paladin of Tyr. By the covenants of Mundus you are mad, and have given service to the Prince of Madness. By the concordants of both your gods and mine, that One can redeem you from the service of your Tyr, or from the Wall of the Faithless, if what you most dread is indeed what awaits you. You need only say the word."

"But, I… haven't served a Mad... Tyr..."

"Blessed soul, I do not forget what you have shared with me. If your Lord Tyr _ever_ marked you among his false or was shamed by you, I say he does not deserve you. _I_ think you were used as badly as Uriel Septim used his son.

"Even the blind could see that you burned with needless shame while in Tyr's service. That you could barely breathe straining against vows that held you back from the good to which you were also sworn, and to which you heart still called you. Perhaps your Mount Celestia _is_ Paradise enough to justify the endurance of such testing. But… I have learned to distrust such claims when what I _see_ before me is good men ravaged for the sake of politics disguised as virtue.

"And this is why I tell you that you _have_ served Sheogorath, and are remembered. Even if _unknowing_ at the time, you were _not_unwilling. _A_nd it is the way of Daedric Princes to claim mortal heroes when they can."

"Faithlessness… the Wall..."

"Gentle Casavir, there will be no Wall of the Faithless for me, bitter though I have been proven more than once. _And none for you, if you will have it so_. In the glory of Dawn's Beauty, mortals may believe what they will for the length of their little lives. And when those lives are ended, heroes such as yourself are freed to join the Daedric Prince whose call they hear, or to unravel the Dreaming Sleeve and return to far Aetherius."

"Not… worthy. Ophala… Li…"

"Ophala -- who used you and then betrayed you? You are not worthy because a half-elven mistress of intrigue chose to play upon your _innocence_ as part of her strategy to escape an unwanted marriage, then did not step forth in challenge when you were left to flee an unjust charge of murder?

"And your Shardbearer? She was _17 and a wild thing herself, _starved for love and attention. When you met her in the mountains, she traveled with Khelgar and Grobnar, and in the company of the three of you she put on her best smile and did what was needed to fit herself to your highest expectations.

"It was only when you had committed yourself and returned with her to Neverwinter that you began to see the signs of her true lawlessness. And even then, you denied your eyes until long after she had turned from you to Bishop, and had begun to curry _his_ favor by joining him in cynicism and petty cruelties.

"And yet you stayed, ignoring the thief and refusing to abandon the good in her, and perhaps that alone kept her from turning yet again and joining with the King of Shadows when Bishop did. And now your fire is burning out, and you _still_ cannot let go of _blaming_ yourself for..."

"NO!"

"Peace. Agreed, enough of that. Hear me on more pressing matters. Sheogorath's intercession at the moment of your death will release you from the oaths that eat your heart and bind you to what you cannot stand. Then, if you cannot stomach Sheogorath, _I_ will journey with you while you go on Pilgrimage and are cleansed of all past offenses.

"You will have the new beginning I promised you. You will be free to join the Divine Crusader's cause or Stendarr's knights, or sing up the dawn for Azura. _Or_ to ignore religion for the rest of your life and become a fisherman or a freesword or a juggler or a cook on the Bloated Float. And There Will Be No Wall Of The Faithless.

"In some ways, Tamriel is more wanton and more cruel than your Faerun -- but you will never again _have_ to have faith in _anything._

"Erm – that cook idea was not half bad, you know. You really do make good pancakes."

"Pancakes? You… make light of..."

"No, Casavir, our Lady Sera is becoming frustrated and frustration seems to drive her to _non sequitur_. Nonetheless, it is _apparent_ to both myself and Zhjaeve that she has gone to a _great_ deal of effort to protect your honor _and_your free-will, _and_ to minimize the advantage granted her by the Madgod."

"Sand? _How?"_

"How? While you were busy with more _martial_ pursuitsZhjaeve and I worked with Startear to piece out the workings of Lady Sera's 'compass.' Then, with Grobnar's aid, we constructed a similar device that enabled us to track our many-named mystery across the planes.

"To this Fringe place. Where _I_ have, in fact, been informed that _I_ am a tourist in that I am _not_ mad. Nonetheless, I have already been rewarded for my service and accepted a lesser offer from Sheogorath. An occasional lettuce and hank of yarn seem a trifling investment when weighed in the balance with one's fate."

"Ac… cepted?"

"Yes, Casavir. Accepted title to a house known as Benerius Manor, in a seaport city with the quaint name of _Anvil__And_ a letter of recommendation from the Arch-Mage of Cyrodiil that I am to take to the Mages Guild chapter in said Anvil. _And_ instructions as to what I will eventually need to do to gain access to the Imperial Library, along with a map that will guide me to a rather _formidable_ volume of knowledge known as the Ogham Infinitum.

"I _will_ need _time_ to relearn my spells, of course, and to get used to being referred to as a 'bosmer.' But I will also escape _my_ past… indiscretions, and the need to bury my talents for fear of drawing the _most_ unpleasant attentions of the remaining Luskan Hosttowers. However, the Arch-Mage thinks that as soon as I adapt, my crafting skills will not only be useful in 'stirring up Guild complacency,' but will also put me in high demand. In fact, Lady Sera has made investing in my new shop a _stipulation_ of our agreement.

"But… Demon pacts… The cost…"

"Know Casavir, that Zhjaeve is also here to guard your soul. The Daedra are not_demons _as you use the term, though they are creatures born of excess and some of them – but not all – are the enemies of the mortals of Nirn.

"This one, Sheogorath, is a trickster, whose true motivations none may _know_. But I _believe _that_in this case_ the bitter mercy you are offered is not false. And I have faith also that your Lady Sera will protect you from the worst of the Madgod's double nature, if such can be done. For the Lady Sera you have always sensed is drawn to you just as is the Daedric Prince."

"Zhjaeve? Drawn..."

"Know that she will not tell you this herself, for she is much your elder and so far from innocence that she fears her touch can only bring you new suffering. And I cannot swear to you that it will not. But know also that she was cast by fate to be the 'sun's companion,' and now that son has passed beyond her reach.

"God-guisers often wear their mortal sleeves badly, and without The Other to consider and make account for, the petulance of the enantiomorph frays at her compassion and mind for mortal weakness. Rather than wait to be twisted by her chirality, and through this mock Martin Septim's sacrifice, the One you know as Lady Sera has claimed the throne of Madness. But fears that even this is not enough."

"Sun's compan…"

"Know that there is no time left to explain the metaphysics of Aurbis and the Outer Realms. If you do not decide in the next few moments, your spirit will fade from this place and you will go to Judgment as a Paladin who has left the service of his lord and knowingly allied with thieves, murderers, and those who _do_ make pacts with demons.

"Know also that much remains hidden from your eyes, and the one who loves you hesitates to call upon your better nature, fearing that you will act from misplaced chivalry and later come to believe that you were cheated."

"Lov…?"

"We are _losing_him, girl. If you _can't _tell him, then _why_ did you drag us all through this sham? _Why_ are we dallying in this decrepit rustic paradise if _you're_ going to be as inept at asking for what you want as _he_is."

"I... yes. Madgod's blessings on you, Sand. '_I shall not quail, nor turn away, but face my enemies and my fear._'"

"Casavir, Casavir, don't go yet. Please, hold on for just for a moment more. I… cannot always stay with you, for I am called to places where you cannot follow. But I have a holding in the Colovian Highlands that needs a lord. And, even when I have to travel, knowing that someone, that _you, _were awaiting my return…

"And if that is too much, I will help you find a wife that pleases you and can give you children. Only _please, please, please_ don't_die_ on me. I am _so _tired of being the _survivor_, of watching the best of those I could love sacrifice themselves because of honor or _indor_ or _shame _in who they were _made _to be.

"Stay alive and let me love you. Please, I _need_ you."

"Lov…?"

"Say 'yes,' Casavir. You're being propositioned by a demi-god who wants to give you a castle. And I dare say she'll marry you, if either of you ever thinks well enough of yourself to ask the other."

"Ye…"

"All stipulations of the contract with Prince Ao have been met. You may proceed with the resurrection."

"Thank you, Haskill."

"I live to serve."


End file.
